


Ceramic Lips

by dorian_opsinereal



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Desk Sex, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Frottage, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, i'm tired can you tell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:13:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23326822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorian_opsinereal/pseuds/dorian_opsinereal
Summary: What do you do when your previous personality has daddy issues, and your boss suddenly looks more appetizing than a big girl burger?  You wag your ass until you get the whole meal.I legitimately had serious intentions when planning this story, but I naturally veered off a cliff into literary porn.  I have no excuses
Relationships: Arima Kishou/Kaneki Ken | Sasaki Haise
Kudos: 50





	Ceramic Lips

We used to talk.  
Not much, but the small talk would fill the awkward spaces between him and I. Speaking almost feels inappropriate, as though it would intrude on these simple moments that have me lingering in the special investigator’s office, silently waiting for the last of the paperwork to be wrapped up. I almost feel selfish for stealing these moments.  
Almost.  
Sometime during these few months he stopped acknowledging my presence with ‘how are you’s’ and ‘I’m just finishing up’s’, and instead a cup of recently brewed coffee would sit on the farside of the desk upon entry everyday, without fail. Despite knowing the mug was cleaned in between each use, I’ll admit the idea of drinking from the same mug that Arima used made me flustered, but it couldn’t have been anymore than discomfort in sharing the drinking apparatus with his superior. Right? However, I soon realized there was something more to these placid periods of company, at least for me. It was in the moments that I found myself pretending the lip of the mug was arima’s lips, firm and imposing against my own. I wanted the stiff ceramic to move against the mold of my mouth, and drench me in a scent other than the sweet and bitter notes of coffee. I knew my relationship with the special class investigator up till now has been reminiscent of a duckling imprinting on its mother, but ducklings didn’t want their boss to bend them over and fuck them into the desk until they ruined hours worth of reports and classified documents. For christ’s sake I wanted to fuck the guy who named me. I wonder if the person I was before had daddy issues…   
So when the Italian roast tasted more bitter than usual and the aroma stung my nose with an aftertaste of mint, it felt vaguely familiar, as though my body was trying to remind me of a similar instance. Despite the strange tug and itch in my brain, I quickly downed the cup and leant against the wall adjacent to the door.   
You should know better than to trust your captor. It was my voice, but at the same time it wasn’t. Distorted from the recesses of my mind, its voice felt like gravel in my ears.  
Then again he’s the missing link between you and me.  
As soon as it came it was gone, and suddenly I could feel how heavy my tongue was in my mouth. My growing distress seemingly went unnoticed as I could still hear the scratch of pen on paper through the slur of my senses. There could have been any number of reasons I was reacting to the coffee so adversely, but I couldn’t find it in myself to care. Yet, that was before I could register how constricting my pants suddenly felt. The room’s devolving into a mess of heat and the unmistakably pronounced signature of Arima’s scent that seemed to drown the last of my resolve. I’m sliding down the wall with the buckle of my knees, loudly chafing the drywall with the sticky fabric of my back until my ass meets the floor with a jolt of nerves climbing my spine. My thought’s come out like sludge, thickened by whatever was in the coffee, Arima’s coffee. He had to know.  
I must have been out of it for longer than I thought, because by the time it took to crane my head up to where the investigator was supposed to be I was met with a curious gaze just above my shaky frame. Steel grey eyes that were supposed to be cold, felt like flames against my skin.  
“I didn’t expect it would be this effective, but this part of you still seems very human,'' there was no disdain in his voice. It might have just been a calculated statement if it hadn’t been for the slight glimmer of admiration for his work in his eye.  
The indirect praise brought my thighs together, nervously rubbing at the ache of my crotch.  
“Get up.”  
There was no question in it, and there was no question in me that I would do anything he said regardless of the drug. So with unsteady legs I pushed up against the wall for stability, averting my eyes in embarrassment as the strain of my cock couldn’t be hidden anymore. In apparent displeasure at my shame, Arima thumbed at my chin, forcefully bringing my heated gaze to his.  
“I couldn’t finish my work because of you.”  
“I’m sor-”  
“I can practically feel your eyes eating me alive when you’re here, it’s distracting.”  
It’s so matter of fact. There’s no verbal cue as to whether he finds my affections repulsive or … agreeable. There’s no inflection or stutter in his voice, and I realize he’s proposing a solution to our issue.  
Finding no objection in my eyes or lips, he guides the front of my hips towards the edge of the desk, leaving one hand gripping the crest of my hip and the other placed at the small of my back. I can tell my clothes will smell like him tomorrow. The drug has worn off enough that my thoughts aren’t inhibited, and part of me knows that I can’t blame my behavior completely on it. For once I don’t want to feel guilty for desiring something.  
It takes everything not to whimper like a bitch in heat when the warmth of his breath paints the tip of my ear.  
“You’ve been quite fixated on this desk for the past several sessions,” his voice rumbles out like the croak of soft thunder, “let me fuck you on it”.  
The sudden way my body preened against the bulged in his trousers was both involuntary and forced. Pressing me prone to the desk, something wet pools under the pressure of his hand. Experimentally, he lightly kneads the portion of my back slicked in excretory fluid, coincidentally the place my kagune sack resided. Pleasure quaked my body in convulsions as my spine lit on fire and pelvis bucked into the mahogany wood.  
“Nng n-not there”  
“The very biology of your dichotomy was made to perform in the likeness of both sexes,” he paused for drifting off into a low whisper, “it makes you honest, Haise.”  
“The way they’ve made me?” My question comes out more as a statement in the haze.  
“It’s perfect.”  
I feel a shameful pride at his remark as the swell of my ass presses against his hips, and I can feel it. The want poised at the crack of my ass makes me happier than it should. Arima had the control here, hooking his pale calloused fingers in the clasp on my belt, the heavy fabric of my work pants dropped to my ankles with the sharp clash of cheap metal.  
“Wa-wait, what if someone c-comes in?”  
“You should know, no one comes in here besides you”  
His words don’t mute the panic rising in my chest, “but the door i-isn’t locked”.  
“I know”  
Before I can further protest, his hands are peeling the fabric of my boxers back, teasing the dip of my groin as his hands travel just above my hips. The desk feels calmingly cool, taking the brunt of my frustration when Arima finally decides he’s done playing. Deliberately pressing into the bundle of nerves I never knew I had, he has me clinging desperately to the small jerks of friction I can muster in the blind pleasure. There’s a heavy drag of breath between us before I can comprehend the tell tale unclasping of a belt buckle, and I can feel him slide between my thighs, aching against me. The investigator's hands return, this time wrapped around our arousal and worked in between my lips. He tastes like candied almonds. I want more, to feel the pads of his fingers massage the back of my throat, to show how much of him I could take. Slick enough, Arima retracted his fingers to the spread of my ass, placating my impatience with his hands working me open.  
Wide deliberate movements, I’m caught between the sharp jolts of pleasure and the increasingly desperate pace of frottage. The friction has devolved into the lewd sound of our cocks slipping together in precum, “Ah-Arima I’m close. I n-need you ins-”.  
Apparently Arima didn’t need any further prompting, allowing the empty feeling from his fingers to last only a second. His hips knock me forward, flush against the desk I’m being impaled. He’s large, larger than I remember between my thighs.  
Once the shock of being fucked so forcefully dissipated I could finally register the choke of gasps and groans between us. Broken sobs of pleasure, rocking me into the desk, I could feel the involuntary tug of foreskin against mahogany.   
Fucking with a desperate abandon, I could feel the fruition of my abused prostate and glans. Hips stuttering, the force of my silent scream left my ears ringing, hazing the room in soft afterglow as I came down from my climax. Meanwhile Arima fucked into me raw, pressing me pliant into the desk until I could feel the heat of his orgasm paint my insides.   
Amidst the haze of everything, my lips and the imagery of ceramic lips reminded me of what this was.  
Sex.  
All it ever will be.

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to refer to his boner tent as claustrophobic dick. By the way is dick claustrophobia a thing...  
> Also, I imagine that Arima’s dirty talk is very much “talk science to me”/corporate dominatrix ~ dichotomy is a sexy word.  
> On a sadder note, the way Arima call’s haise perfect because of how he was “made” makes me so sad. He knows that he’ll live a short life, and both envies and regrets the long life Haise will probably live (and suffer a majority of it).
> 
> anyone notice that legit everyone in Tokyo Ghoul has daddy issues?


End file.
